Ruby Red Wine
by Determamfidd
Summary: Missing scene from Sansukh. Bofur and Gimris didn't exactly start out in the most elegant manner, as courtships go. A slice-of-life story, about a pair of nervous Dwarves, their families, and how awkward falling in love can be.


"Uncle Bofur?" Barís blinked. "_My_ uncle Bofur?"

"Shhhhh, yes, your uncle Bofur," Gimrís hissed, and she stuck another pin into the bodice on the master-performer's new dress. "That can't be so surprising, can it?"

"I suppose not," Barís said, tipping her head. "But I never thought. Well, he's always just been silly Uncle Bofur to me."

"Yes, but he _is _silly uncle Bofur to you," Gimrís said, and she span her friend around, stepping back to look at the combination of dress and bushy brown hair and round, cheerful face. Gimrís was a fair seamstress, but she disliked it and found it tedious. That she was helping Barís at all spoke of their long friendship. "Doesn't mean that's all he is. Hmm. That's a fair good colour on you."

"Never thought," Barís repeated, and shook her head. She had recently had her lip pierced to denote her new mastery in songcrafting, and she worried at it with her teeth as she gave her friend a strange look. "He's a lot older than us."

"I don't care," Gimrís said, just as stubborn as any member of her family, her vibrant hair bristling. "I don't care, he could be as old as the Mountain and I wouldn't care a jot."

Barís smiled. "Well, good then. Sorry – just a bit surprised, didn't mean to be rude, Gim. Have you begun courting?"

Gimrís hesitated, and then she dropped her head into her hands and groaned. "No."

"Better get to that," Barís said, and moved stiffly over, her body held rigid to avoid the pins stuck everywhere through her new court dress. She felt rather like an ambulatory statue as she wobbled close to pat her friend on the shoulder.

"Three nights hence," Gimrís said, muffled behind her hands. "First courtship dinner."

"Good luck, then." Barís glanced down at her dress. "Now, can you help me get out of this thing?"

* * *

"Sooooo."

Bofur twiddled with his hat, nearly strangling the poor thing between his hands. "Gimrís, hello," he said.

Then he groaned. "Nope. Nooooo. That'll never do. Uh… Gimrís, lovely to see you again! Here, let me take your NOPE, try again… Hello, Gimrís! Bofur son o' Bomfur, at your - NO, fer Mahal's sake, she knows who you are. Relax, y' daft old thing."

He cleared his throat and strangled his hat some more. Then he plastered a very sickly smile on his face and said, "Hello, Gimrís. Lovely evening isn't it? How's about I take your coat and we can put our foot _straight _into our mouth, eh? Why not make it sound like you intend to get her undressed before we've even finished sayin' hello?"

Bofur stared at himself in the mirror, and then let his head flop forward, burying his face in his hat.

"You need to calm down," said a voice from the door, and Bofur looked up to see Bombur leaning on his staff, grinning at him like a full moon.

"Oh, get lost, quit laughing at me," Bofur moaned, and he tugged on his plaits and met his eyes in the mirror again. "You're one hundred years wed, you probably can't even remember what it's like to go courtin': all the nerve-wracking awfulness of it. Besides, you skipped half the steps."

Bombur shrugged easily. "Aye. Saved time."

Bofur waved a hand at his reflection wildly. "An' between the pair of us _you _got the good looks. What have I to offer a dam like her? I'm too old for her!"

"Seems she'll be the judge of that," Bombur said, and he limped forward to pick up Bofur's hat and brush it off a few times. "And seems she's not interested in any other. I wouldn't go questioning that too hard, if I were you – you might end up convincing her."

Bofur stared at himself gloomily as Bombur settled his hat back on his head and gave one of its tails one last brush. He was dressed in his nicest clothes – and these days, the nicest he could afford was _very _nice. Still, they weren't as splendid as the ones, say, Balin favoured. Bofur didn't really ever think that he'd outgrow a certain internal screech every time he spent more than a couple o' bob on _clothes,_ by Telphor's nose. Poverty was a hard habit to lose, even for one of the richest Dwarves in Erebor.

So he was clad in a smart jacket (that he'd actually forced himself to buy) in red and brown, buttoned up over a tan high-collared shirt with clever green embroidered clasps, and plain dark brown trousers. The boots were Alris' work, and had very nice leather knotwork around the tops and were lined in goat-wool that spilled out around his shins. He rather liked them, even if they weren't as fancy as some he'd seen around the markets of Dale.

He was unsure about his scarf. Winter was drawing on, but his scarf had seen better days and it was faded besides. Too late to go and buy a new one.

And then there was his hat.

"I look like a middle-aged fart in new clothes," he said in dawning dismay.

"You look fine," said his little brother gently, and he patted Bofur's shoulder. "Go on."

"I've grey in my hair an' moustache now," Bofur fretted. "Think I could hide it with some o' the boot-black on it?"

"Boot-black in your beard!" Bombur actually raised his voice above a murmur in his astonishment. "An' leave her with boot-black all around her mouth?"

Bofur's mind went soft and hazy. "Whu…?"

"Don't be putting boot-black anywhere near your face, nadad," Bombur said, and he clucked his tongue once or twice and then licked his fingers and twisted the points of Bofur's moustache until they were sharp enough to poke someone's eye out. "There. Looking like a mine full o' diamonds, you are. An' the grey's nice, it's distinguished."

"She's so beautiful. She's so clever. She's not even a hundred yet," Bofur said, and then he rubbed his eyes. "I'm not doing this, I'm not doing this."

"All right then," Bombur soothed, gently pushing Bofur towards the door. "Just as you say, you're not doing this. Show me your smile, eh?"

Bofur smiled.

Bombur looked a little worried as he patted Bofur's shoulder again. "Well, there's nothing in your teeth, at least."

* * *

"Where is it!"

_Crash._

"Durin save me, _where is my gold comb!"_

"Gimrís, calm down!"

"Calm down?" she hissed, and whirled on Gimli who held up his hands as meekly as he was able.

"I was only going to say, it's over beneath your book," he said. "I can see the edge."

"Oh." She moved the book that was sitting propped open on her dresser ("Ailments of the Throat and Nose, by Óin son of Gróin") and sure enough there sat her little gold comb. "Oh, thank Mahal."

"Thank me, if you please," Gimli laughed, and he stepped forward and lifted the massive heavy rope that was Gimrís' hair. Falling to below her knees, red as fire, it was a weighty and curly mass that was nigh-impossible to tame even as it was the envy of all Erebor. "Do you want a hand?"

"You couldn't do my hair even if I held a knife to your throat," she sniffed, and tugged her hair back. "You barely know which end of a comb is which."

"You're hilarious. I can brush if you pin," Gimli said, tipping his head.

Gimrís glanced around at the havoc her panic had caused. Her room was something of a disaster, and so was she. Half her desk was on the floor, and her hair was still bound in a working-braid. She only wore a shift, and her dress still lay on the bed ready to be worn. She was not even wearing her earrings or nose-jewel yet!

She sat on her stool heavily, and the air was suddenly very thin and hard to breathe. "I'm not ready!" she gasped.

"Gimrís," Gimli said tentatively. "Here, I can't do much harm if I just brush while you put your rings on, eh?"

"Gimli, you fathead, didn't you hear me? I'll be late, I'm going to be so late, oh, what will he think of me!" she managed, and her voice sounded high and shrill to her own ears.

"He will think, and rightfully so, that you are the most irritating and irksome Dwarrowdam to ever walk the halls of Erebor," Gimli said with utter solemnity, and he ducked, laughing heartily as she scowled and swiped at him. "Now hold still, namadith, or I shall end up pulling out your hair instead of brushing it."

"I didn't know you could use a brush," she retorted automatically, mostly out of long habit rather than out of any true spite. Still, Gimli was oddly indifferent to his hair for a Dwarf, a fact that had provided a mine of material for a sharp-tongued younger sister.

He snorted now, and began to unwind the long ties that kept her hair bound, before dragging the brush through the ends alone, working his way up the great mass of hair. "Put your rings in," he said absently. Gimrís was still lightheaded, and so she would use that as her excuse for doing as he said: looping her ears with her favourite cuffs and threading her nose with a bright blue jewel.

"All right, did you want a four-strand?" Gimli said eventually, and Gimrís looked up from putting her finger-rings on. Her hair was completely unbound, and haloed around her like a cloud.

"Leave it," she heard herself say, and Gimli's eyebrows shot up.

"You'll have a bugger of a time getting it all back under control," he warned.

"Then… then let's just braid the top," she said, and raised her hands. "I want to wear my gold comb… oh, where is it _now…_"

"It's by your elbow," Gimli said, and he leaned back to let her work.

She fought her hair for a moment, and then Gimli's hands rested over hers. Hers were burned shiny in places from glasswork, but his were hard as granite from weaponscraft and mining. "You're tangling it," he said, his voice oddly gentle. "Here. I might not like doin' for myself, but I _do _know what to do."

She met his eyes in her dresser-mirror, and he smiled at her encouragingly. "All right," she said, and she sounded young and nervous. Gimli took up her hair again and bent to the task. When he had gathered it all up at the back of her head she blurted, "what do you think?"

He frowned, and glanced at her. "About what?"

"About…" she waved a hand vaguely. Gimli seemed to get the message though, and he bent his head, grinning.

"I think it's grand."

She blinked. What, no mockery? "Really?"

"Aye." Gimli tied off a last small braid to hang before her ear, before taking up the gold comb and setting it carefully amidst the rich red wealth of her hair. It sat above the knot of braids he had woven at the back of her head, which then cascaded into a tail of unbound curls hanging down her back. "Really."

"Oh." She looked at herself for a moment or two, and then swallowed. "What if he doesn't like me?"

"Gimrís," he said seriously, and set his hands upon her shoulders. "He already likes you."

She hated how foolish she sounded when she asked, yet _again, _"really?"

Gimli raised an eyebrow. "Nope, it's all lies. He's made plans for dinner with another Dwarrowdam. It's some other clever, quick-witted, beautiful, pain-in-the-arse journeyman glassblower an' apprentice healer named Gimrís."

She hit him with her brush.

* * *

"Should I walk her to Bofur's place, d'you think?"

"Glóin."

"Just to see her there safe, y'know. I wouldn't go putting myself in the way. Just get her there safe."

"Glóin."

"I'd leave right away!"

"_Glóin_."

"An' while I'm there, I could take the opportunity to have a quiet word in Bofur's ear. Just between us old friends, aye?"

"Glóin."

"Just a friendly word. Between friends. Because we're all friends, eh?"

Mizim pinched the bridge of her nose. "Glóin."

"I wouldn't go threatening him! Just a little – reminder. Treat her well, that sort o' thing. I'm not going to make our daughter ashamed of me! Who do you take me for!"

"Glóin!"

"But he'd better treat her like a queen. Is all I'm saying. Just want to make sure he knows that."

"GLÓIN!"

Glóin looked up from where he was muttering into his pipe. "Jewel?"

Mizim sighed and tugged on her pale beard, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Mahal save us from the idiocy of the Durin line. You're staying right here, you old bear. Gimrís is in charge of her own life, and Bofur's nervous enough as it is."

Glóin mumbled into his vast beard for a moment, his eyes rebellious.

"Glóin!"

"Aye, jewel o' my life," he said eventually, and his shoulders unbunched.

"There's a love," she said, and kissed his head.

"I'm ready."

Gimrís stood in the doorway, and she looked like – well, to Glóin's biased eyes, she was the most beautiful girl to ever breathe. Gimli hovered behind her, wild-haired and sturdy and grinning broadly.

His heart spasmed, as it always did when he looked upon them. Stout and strong and clever, his children.

"Oh, darling," Mizim said mistily, and she crossed to Gimrís and kissed her cheek soundly, before smoothing down the riot of glossy red curls on her cheek. "Oh, my little girl…"

"Stop. Please," Gimrís said, uncomfortable, and sent an elbow back into Gimli's stomach, which cut off his snigger rather abruptly. "You'd better hope you don't have to do this, nadad."

"You look lovely," Mizim said, and she wiped at her eye as surreptitiously as she was able. "Have a good time, dearest one."

"D'you want me to walk you there?" Glóin said, thrusting his chin out pugnaciously. Gimrís looked horrified. "Right, so that's a no. Just. Just… have a lovely time." He cleared his throat and added meaningfully, "tell Bofur that I said hello. To him. _Hello, Bofur,_ I said. From Glóin son o' Gróin. Specifically."

Then he drew his head in and clamped his lips around his pipe, puffing away like a sullen furnace. Mizim stifled a sigh.

"Have fun, trollbrain," Gimli said, and tweaked the end of her hair.

Gimrís looked rather lost for words, but the familiar insult made her blink and draw herself together. "See you, goblinface," she said reflexively, and swept to the door. "Don't wait up!"

"What d'you mean by-" was the last thing she heard her father say, before Mizim firmly shut the door behind her.

* * *

"Hello, Gimrís," Bofur said, and tried to smile. It felt sort of twisted on his face, and he winced internally. "Welcome."

"Bofur," she said, and her face flamed and flamed and _oh, _his moustache was all neatened and she wanted to curl it around her finger. "Um."

"Oh! Oh, come in, an' sit down. Can I take your…ahhhhh. Well. You're not wearing a coat nor a wrap, well, that's one thing crossed off the list," Bofur said, and he knew he was babbling. _STOP IT, YOU GREAT FOOL, YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE A COLOSSAL TIT OF YOURSELF,_ he shouted inside his head, but he couldn't seem to stop. "Sit down, sit down – oh, I've already said. Bom's making us dinner, he'll be out from the kitchen in a moment, can I get you anything in the meantime? Want a drink?"

_Oh, he's… he's as nervous as I am,_ Gimrís thought in awe, and she stepped into the house in a sort of poleaxed silence. The room she found herself in was warm and cosy and sort of cramped. There were paintings on the walls of Broadbeam patterns, and an old miner's pick was bolted above the fireplace. A lovingly-detailed portrait of a Dwarrow stood in pride of place over the head of the table: a sturdy fellow with white-and-black hair and a classic Broadbeam nose and an oddly-staring look in his eye.

It had the look of a room that had been hastily cleared of its habitual clutter, rather than a room that was normally kept in order. Everything was a little _too _tidy for it to be its natural state.

"Dad said hello," she said, for lack of anything to say. _LACKWIT!_ her brain thundered. _You couldn't say anything about the rooms? They're nice! He's nice!_

_He's _too_ nice, that's why you've nothing in the world at all to say,_ her brain whispered slyly, answering itself. She decided to stop thinking altogether. She was evidently of no help at all.

Bofur hovered uncertainly. "Uh. Seat? Drink?" he said again, and he was gnawing a little on his lower lip. He had crooked teeth, Gimrís realised, and they were perfectly charming.

"Um," she said again, and wanted to beat herself over the head with her boot. _Quick-witted you say, brother? I wish._ "A drink would be nice," she eventually managed, and smiled at him. Her whole body felt energised, totally alive in his presence.

_If only my mind hadn't clocked off the minute he smiled at me!_

Bofur nodded quite quickly and nearly ran out of the room. "Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink…" he muttered, and his hands crashed into the glasses and the decanter that Bombur had set up for him. He'd chosen a nice, unusual little wine – not terribly fancy, not like the ones Balin and Óin loved to exclaim over – from Dale's newest vineyard. Bofur had stared at the label until he could quote it with his eyes shut.

His hand wobbled as he poured, and he had to lean upon his palm against the sideboard to stop it.

She looked so beautiful. So so beautiful. And that hair…!

Gimrís pressed her hands to her flaming face, trying to cool it. No good. Her brain was still being spectacularly unhelpful. All it wanted to do was exclaim over how tight that coat appeared to be; too new, and so it did not move with Bofur's body and hugged suggestively in places where it had not grown soft and worn. And that moustache…! She rubbed her forehead for a moment, and then flopped herself down on a chair.

Something crunched beneath her.

She froze. Then she gingerly stood, moving as swiftly as a glacier. She turned with slow dread to look at the crushed little balsawood model, gaily painted in bright colours, that had been sitting innocently on the chair. "Oh no," she said softly, and picked up the poor pitiful thing. String twanged as it broke.

A lot of work had gone into this little thing.

Perhaps she could stuff it under the table? No. No. That was unworthy of her.

She cringed, and hung her head. "What an auspicious start to the evening," she said acidly to herself, and went to go find Bofur and apologise.

Bofur picked up the two glasses and took a breath. "Right. Right. Rightrightrightright-" Still speaking, he began to charge with renewed purpose for the door back to the dining room, and crashed straight into someone. The wine spilled everywhere.

"Ach!" the someone yelped, and something hard and bright flew up into the air and hit Bofur right between the eyes.

He let out a startled 'Gnuh!' as he fell back against the wall. Whatever wine had been left in the glasses splashed him directly in the face.

The sideboard rattled, and slowly – ever so slowly, and with a certain dignified grace – it toppled over with an almighty _smash!_

The sound of tinkling glass faded, leaving behind a stifling air of embarrassment.

Bofur blinked wine out of his eyelashes to see Gimrís sitting in a heap on the floor, her dress stained red and wet and clinging to her. Wine had splashed her hair and face as well, and had plastered her whiskers to her cheek. She looked thoroughly mortified.

"That," said Bofur dazedly, "had hints of blackcurrant and oak an' pencil shavings, probably. From some bloke's farm near Dale, forget the name but it was a bloody nice drop."

Gimrís stared at him for a moment, and then she blurted, "it certainly made a bloody nice drop."

Bofur stared back at her.

And then she began to giggle. "I'm so sorry," she gasped, and held her hand over her stomach. "I'm… your braids are drooping, they look so sad! I crushed the model, it was an accident – I'm so sorry, it was on the chair and I didnae look to…"

"Wait, you said made a nice drop," Bofur interrupted, a huge grin beginning to bloom across his face.

She laughed louder, her brown eyes sparkling. "I did."

"So, my poor little toy dragon, he was smashing then?" Bofur began to chuckle, and she shook her head, wine running down her neck as she laughed.

"Actually he came to a rather flat and abrupt _end_," she said, and grinned. Bofur laughed uproariously.

"What a crushin' defeat!"

"Wasn't the feet that was his undoing!"

Bofur fell over, clutching his hat. Gimrís leaned over her knees and held her stomach as together they laughed and laughed.

Bofur sat up eventually, and wiped at his eyes. "Ahhh, we're a mess," he said, and shook his head. He couldn't seem to wipe the grin from his face. He hadn't known she was _funny._ How could he not know that?

"Could've been worse," Gimrís said, and she shook her head. "Oh, hammer and tongs, my stomach. Well, we lasted but five minutes before disaster struck. That's got to be some sort of record."

"The shortest courtship in Erebor!" Bofur's grin softened into a smile, and he scooted closer to her. "They'll sing songs about us, eh?"

"They already sing songs about you," she said, ducking her head, shy of a sudden. She twisted her fingers in her wine-sodden hair. He pulled them away gently.

"They sing songs about the Company, aye. Bunch of idealistic old twits that we were." He traced a burn-scar on her palm with his thumb, and then squeezed her hands between his. "Gimrís, you are young yet, are you…"

She surged forward and kissed him.

It was rather like being hit with someone else's mouth. She pressed her lips together as hard as steel, and then mashed them against his, as though daring him to draw away. He blinked in shock, before carefully threading one hand through the silky curls upon her cheek and opening his mouth upon hers.

She made a sound of surprise, and then followed his lead.

He lost track of all time then, sitting on his floor with wine splashed in puddles all around and broken glass scattered about them. Gimrís seemed content enough, though, and paid no mind to anything that wasn't him.

Well, that suited him right down to the bedrock.

"You're a sweet old fool if you think you're going to scare me away," she said softly, and leaned her head against his. This close, she could see the lighter flecks in his eyes, like topaz, and the little wrinkles around his lips from millions upon millions of smiles. "Your dragons don't frighten me, Bofur. I'll just sit on them."

He laughed helplessly again, and kissed her and kissed her, and knew he was happy, knew he was totally smitten, knew he had finally found what he had always longed for. "Oh, you're a ruby, you are," he murmured. "My ruby."

Bombur paused in the doorway, and then carefully and as quietly as he was able, he crept away.

* * *

"Gimrís – Mahal _wept_!"

"Shhhh!" she hissed, and snuck through the doorway into the kitchen. Gimli's mouth was open in absolute astonishment as he took in the state of her. "Don't wake Amad and Adad!"

"What happened?" Gimli said, staring at her, his eyes huge. She knew she looked an absolute fright: her hair was a riot, worse even than his, and she was clad only in an old coat of Bofur's, her shift and her jewellery, with her sopping and wine-reeking dress slung over her arm. He reached for her to rub her arms, trying to warm her.

"He spilled the wine, that's all!" She slapped his hands away. "I'm fine, nadad, get off! I had a wonderful time. I'm seeing him again at Nori's tomorrow. He can play whistle, did you know? I'm going to bring my dance-shoes, show them a few of our best moves."

"Don't think Nori's is the place for axe-dancin' somehow," Gimli said weakly, and then he gestured around her mouth. "You're, uh."

Her hand flew up, and she blushed hotly as she felt the rawness around her lips. "Um."

"Um," Gimli agreed. "So?"

She then beamed and flopped into a chair. "I broke a dragon, and there was Broadbeam dumpling soup. Bombur made it," she said, and she sighed happily and gazed at nothing in particular. "And the wine was from Dale before we ended up wearing it. He's going to sing for me. He knows a lot of songs. He was very poor once. He has nice hair. And he's going to sing for me."

"That's… nice," Gimli said, and he did not appear to know what to do with a _happy and dreamy _sister as opposed to a sharp and sarcastic one. "Perhaps you should bathe before bed, eh? You smell."

"_You_ smell," she retorted dreamily.

"Come on, nadad, bed time." He coaxed her up, and led her towards the bathing room. "You can tell me more in the morning, eh? Not everything, mind," he added hurriedly.

She laughed. "Not everything, no. He's going to sing for me, did I mention?"

"You did," he said, and he seemed to have settled on 'amused' rather than 'alarmed'. "I think that'd be right annoying, being sung at constantly."

"Not if it's the right person doing the singing," she countered, and poked his stomach. "Not if it's the right song."

"I'll take your word for it," he said, and pushed her into the bathroom before shaking his head.

_Honestly, who wanted to be warbled at all day? Might as well be an elf, with that attitude._


End file.
